


Wet

by musamihi



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Bickering, M/M, OccasionallyActsOnIt!Klaus, Resolved Sexual Tension, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/pseuds/musamihi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission in the Caribbean, a five-star resort, a steamy hotel room - Dorian wastes the perfect opportunity.  Klaus is more dependable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wet

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 日本語 available: [Wet （日本語訳）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1728623) by [Kyokana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyokana/pseuds/Kyokana)



If there was anything better than lying on the beach at two in the afternoon without a care in the world, it was probably lying on the beach at two in the afternoon without a care in the world after getting up at noon for a two piña colada lunch. So there really was nowhere to go but down, was there? _Just_ like Cleobis and Biton, he thought with a sigh as the sun dutifully continued polishing up his already thoroughly enviable glow - and, doubtless, melting his third cocktail - yes, just like those happiest of boys, he could simply die right now. Or at least fall asleep. Man had grown softer since the days of godly interventions.

His prayers went unanswered, as usual. Instead of sleep, shadow overtook him. Someone was standing directly, yes _directly_ in his light, and as he counted oh so patiently to ten, his hope that they would remove themselves without his polite insistence steadily dwindled. Were there no manners left in the world? Was there no thoughtfulness?

He heard a rustling, and caught a whiff of - rental car, perhaps? Distressing, most distressing. He would _not_ open his eyes. Things like this were best ignored, and forgotten as promptly as possible. But all hope of a peaceful solution was washed away when something frigid splattered all down his chest, sticky and thick and icy and smelling of rum. He leapt to his feet with a gasp, snatching up his towel, which was half soaked. "What in hell do you think you're doing?"

"Sorry. I thought you were unconscious." Major Eberbach did not look sorry, with his mouth twisted up into something that probably would have been a smile if he hadn't been such a hopelessly stiff, boorish _prude_. He was even wearing a _tie_. "I didn't think even you would be seen wearing that in public."

"This is the appropriate attire for those of us lucky enough to care about tan lines." Dorian used a dry corner of his towel to sponge most of the mess off of his body. It left a horrible residue. He glared as the Major tossed an empty coconut shell down into the sand. "I wasn't finished with that."

"Good. We need you sober. Come on." He turned on his heel, leaving a neat little divot, and began with staggering confidence towards the wide gazebo that marked the entrance to the resort. What sort of sadistic, selfish - well, just come out and say it, what sort of _tease_ wore slacks on the beach? And with a wallet in the back pocket. It was like he was actually trying not to be any fun at all.

"What, _now?_ " Dorian had to admit, the only thing he wanted at the moment was a shower. Their paths would not diverge until they reached the hotel, and so he followed him. "The job doesn't start for another week. You told me so. I came early to avoid this sort of miserable hustling." He let the towel drag lightly through the sand. No one else had complained about what he was wearing. Who would?

"Things change." When they reached the steps that led up to the hotel grounds, he stopped to kick the sand off his shoes. "We have to go. We'll get you some clothes when we get to base. - But cover up, for Christ's sake."

Dorian stormed ahead of him. "I have my own clothes, thank you. _If_ I decide to join you, I'll meet you at the bar in an hour. - An hour and a half. I didn't sign up for this."

"We're going _now_." The Major caught up to him easily, but kept a pace or two to one side. As though he was in any mood to be close to him.

"I need a shower. Thanks to you."

"Use that one." He pointed to what was little better than a faucet sticking out of a wall, provided for those detestable tourists who simply _had_ to go directly from the ocean to the swim-up bar. Dorian sneered.

"You can be very common sometimes. Has anyone told you?" He kept walking, wondering where exactly he had left his bag. Surely with the darling boy behind the towel desk. He looked awfully bored watching a gaggle of scantily clad young women frolicking in the shallow end of the pool.

The Major stepped in front of him, blocking his view and his path. "You are coming with me. This is important. Rinse off here if you have to -"

"I have a shower in my room, darling. I don't hold with public displays of hygiene."

"You are not going to your room! You'll stay up there all day, or climb out a window or something and we'll all be left hanging just like every other god damned time you decide you have something more important to do! Now come on!"

Dorian crossed his arms over his chest - very nearly naked, sticky with rum and sugar, and standing within stepping distance of the swimming pool - and gave a tight smile. "Make me."

Major Eberbach's face turned a gratifying shade of purple. 

Dorian smiled, stepped past him, and casually dropped his towel onto an empty pool chair. He retrieved his effects and walked towards the hotel. "An hour and a half, Major." Maybe longer, at that. The soap in this hotel smelled heavenly, and the sun, those drinks had drawn all the pep right out of him. He could spend a good two hours in the bath, if he couldn't nap on the beach. What a marvelous thought.

He was languorously anticipating lavender and shea butter when he stepped into the elevator. As the doors were about to close, the Major darted in, slamming his arm against the doors and sending them retreating back into the wall. Dorian sighed, and studied the inspection certificate until the doors closed again.

"I am capable of bathing on my own, but if you _must_ accompany -"

"Shut up. I can't have you - jumping off the balcony, or something."

"And you have nothing better to do?" He might have welcomed him, really. Ever since their eventful little Roman holiday, he no longer had to resort to his imagination to conjure up images of a soaked and smoldering Major Eberbach, and he was always happy, more than happy, to add another memory to that disappointingly thin file. Some shirtless entries wouldn't come amiss. But reason and experience assured him that the Major would almost surely be stationed on the wrong side of the bathroom door, all banging fists and decidedly unromantic exhortations. He was not a fixture in an environment conducive to personal restoration. 

"That's none of your business." Klaus held the doors when they reached the fourteenth floor, and gestured him into the corridor with all the courtesy of a trained bear. "After you, my lord."

And so Dorian had no choice but to let himself be followed back to his room. He did his utmost to ensure that he provided an enjoyable view, at the very least. But no comment was forthcoming.

Perhaps he would be able to ignore him. But what could possibly keep the Major at a tolerable distance long enough to allow him to take advantage of the truly marvelous marble tub awaiting him? Was there anything that could keep him from pounding incessantly on the door? He slid the key into the lock and entered, with his guest, dropping his bag to one side and feeling his much-needed lengthy soaking slipping away from him. He made for the bathroom, resentment in his heart.

"Make yourself at home, Major. They ought to have restocked the cupboard by this time of day, and there's the television -"

"Ja, just hurry up, will you?" He took a seat on the edge of the bed, and started fiddling with the remote.

Dorian smiled politely. "I'll be out shortly."

Miserable man. He turned on the tap in the bathroom - as scaldingly hot as possible, thank you - and tipped about half a bottle of the delightfully clean-smelling oil that had come with the room into the basin. He stripped (it was a brief process) and stood at the sink before the mirror as his bath filled the room with steam and ... lemon and rose, it might have been. A lovely combination. Inspecting his face, he was forced to admit that a couple hours more in the sun might have been too much. The Major had come along at his very moment of perfection. Fate was a mysterious but ultimately benevolent creature.

A more than faintly appalled shout came from the bedroom: "Will you close that fucking door?"

Dorian grinned at himself. He was clever, that man in the mirror. "I'd love to, Major, but the fan's broken. I'll simply cook." And the color set off his teeth smashingly. He had outdone himself this summer. "You can come take a look at it, if you like. I'll just be in the tub."

He expected no answer, and received none. A terrifying proposition, no doubt. Well. That took care of that.

All the day's more unfortunate events were immediately forgotten when finally he sank into the exquisite mountains of suds that obliterated the lingering scent of rum on impact. He let his head dip below the waterline, and the monotonous drone of the television news drifting in from the bedroom faded into nothingness as his hair fanned out around him.

Perfect.

He could hear the Major start grumbling after about thirty minutes. When he started shouting - at the hour mark, give or take - Dorian ignored him. And when he felt like ninety minutes had passed, and the ineffectual complaints had ceased, he decided that perhaps it was time to extricate himself. He toweled off quickly, wrung his hair out once or twice, and wrapped himself in his bathrobe. He always brought his own. He had depended upon the taste of hotels of varying quality one too many times in his life, and in his opinion there were few things less attractive than a robe that hit below the knee. It sent quite the wrong message.

There was almost no change in temperature or humidity as he stepped out of the bathroom. He could see he had steamed up the mirror hanging over the dresser, and that heavenly smell pervaded all, hanging in the air like it might simply start pouring down like rain. The blackout curtains were shut, and all was still. It was deliciously oppressive.

The Major was lying back on the bed, his feet still planted firmly on the floor, hands covering his face. He had gone so far as to take the knot out of his tie. Dorian smiled.

"Tired, Major?"

He didn't move. "It's like a god damned steam bath in here," he complained with little of his usual vigor. "Are you decent?"

Dorian took a moment to push his bathrobe off one shoulder. "Completely."

The Major sat up slowly and, if one can, skeptically, smoothing the front of his shirt with his hands. His hair was sticking to his face in places. It was charming. Dorian wiped a section of the mirror clean and watched the man's reflexion as he plugged in his hair dryer.

Klaus's face fell. "There's _more?_ "

"I can't do business looking less than my best. I have a reputation to uphold."

"You look fine." He gave a resigned huff as Dorian smirked at him over his shoulder. "Idiot."

"It won't take long."

That was a lie. After the first attack - when the heat became unbearable and he had to give it a rest - he shook the curls out of his eyes and saw that the Major was lying back again, his eyes closed, his hands folded loosely over his stomach. Dorian went to stand beside him on the pretense of finding an elastic in the nightstand. "This climate can certainly take it out of you."

Klaus's eyes opened. "Get back to work."

Dorian smiled down at him. "You're not suited to it. It's making you wilt."

"I'm not wilting."

"You are." He reached down to touch one of the fine strands of black that were clinging obstinately to his forehead. Klaus caught his wrist in a hot, ever so slightly slippery grip that was not, admittedly, wilted.

Klaus stared at him; Dorian simply smiled back.

Finally, a look of mild irritation came over those inscrutable features, and with a muttered curse Klaus pulled down on his arm.

Dorian descended gracefully onto the bed beside him, lowering his face as Klaus sunk his hands slowly, not quite surely, into Dorian's heavy, still-damp hair. They kissed; it was softer than he had expected, somehow. Klaus smelled like cheap shampoo, good aftershave - a little spicy - and a touch of sweat and sunscreen. Not bad at all.

There were several moments of confusion. When they ended, Dorian was on his back and tangled hopelessly in his bathrobe, and Klaus was leaning over him in his undershirt, his belt and trousers making a quiet sliding sound as they disappeared off the foot of the bed. He had a peculiar look of wary surprise that Dorian could only concentrate on for so long, attractive as it was, before his eyes decided to wander across his shoulders, his bare arms (which really were terribly impressive) -

"You look different with your hair wet."

"It gets darker," Dorian offered, amused. He felt as though he were still in the bath. It was lovely, just lovely.

"Less ridiculous."

Well, really. He did have a strange way of surrendering himself at long last to the wild winds of passion.

Klaus improved on this method somewhat, however, by gently - surprisingly gently, Dorian thought a bit giddily - pushing aside one of the folds of generous white terry that was wrapped across his chest, and moving his thumb lightly along the lines of his ribs, one a a time, boustrophedon, almost as if he were counting them. He shifted his weight to one hip; the undershirt disappeared. Then he - Klaus, his whole body, his darling, stubborn Major - sank against him with a long, nearly-silent sigh. His hips weighed a little more heavily than was strictly necessary against Dorian's, and his lips moved across the skin at the base of his neck.

"God." The word was a sweetly deep rumble at his ear. "It's so god damned _hot_."

Dorian grinned, and blew lightly over the ridge of Klaus's shoulders, down to the small of his back. He watched the muscles tighten there, felt him shiver. He closed his eyes and began concentrating on memorizing _exactly_ how it felt when Klaus ran the very tip of his tongue up the side of his throat.

"Fuck." Less a rumble than a rock dropped in a pond, this time. But still, you could never blame Major Eberbach for not saying exactly what he wanted, no you -

That glorious weight disappeared. Dorian's eyes shot open. "Klaus?"

"It's _four o'clock._ " He slammed his fist into the mattress, and hauled himself up. " _Fuck!_ "

Oh, no. "Where are you going?" Dorian didn't move a muscle. Not one. Just in case.

"We're both going." He snapped his undershirt up off the floor. "Get dressed. You stupid son of a bitch, you _had_ to sit in the fucking bath for - an hour and a half -"

"We're going _now_?" He sat up, watching helplessly as the skin slowly disappeared. Why was such injustice allowed to exist?

"We'll be late." Klaus straightened his hair in the mirror, then turned and jabbed a finger at him. "You owe me one. - Two. I don't know how fucking many."

"Well," Dorian replied weakly, biting very lightly at his bottom lip to keep from smiling, "All right."

\+ + +

Well, that was that.

Another job done, another three days spent chafing under orders - when he wasn't being ignored entirely. It brought back so many memories. He had managed a wink here, a come-on there, an occasional accidental grope, all for old times' sake; and the thanks he received for making an otherwise boring, oppressive, clockwork experience just _that_ much more entertaining was being banned to the back of the van for the return trip. A few of the Major's men whose designations he couldn't be bothered to remember rode with him, seated on old drop-cloths and desperately avoiding his eyes. As though he'd be looking at any of _them._ The little prince sat up in the front with Klaus, naturally. Snotty little bugger. Dorian could think of a few things that might help Agent Z's attitude, _absolutely_ he could.

Which only made him think of the way Klaus had rushed him out of that hotel room, and his foul mood fed on itself. He couldn't have spared an hour, goodness no, we must always be on time, mustn't we? The very priggish picture of virtue and duty and healthy habits, Major Eberbach hadn't so much as given him a tepid glance since they had left that warm, close, sweaty, wonderful -

God. He wanted him - badly. And it was tearing at his nerves this time.

Not at Klaus's, though. If he had nerves. The van stopped after a long time, and Dorian and the rest of the cargo stepped out into the dark night, which felt much like the interior of an un-air-conditioned van, but at least smelled better. The other men slunk obediently off towards -

"Why are we at the airport?"

The Major talked around the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, slamming the driver's side door shut. "Because we're finished, and we're going home."

"My things are in my hotel room."

Klaus checked his wristwatch, and looked over his shoulder. A man with a suitcase appeared amidst the docking equipment. "A's got it all packed up for you."

Oh, how irritating. "I had that room booked for another two weeks." At least it had been A doing the packing. He was always so much more professional than Klaus.

"Put it in the bill."

A stopped beside the Major, and set his suitcase down - with admirable delicacy - before exchanging a few words with him, low enough that Dorian couldn't hear.

Klaus, as usual, refused to lower his voice. "Fucking backwater. - I'll go. I'm not staying in this mud hole an extra second."

"What's going on?"

"We're leaving now." He dropped his cigarette, scraped it over the ground with his shoe, and started for the boxy terminal. "Come on."

" _I_ am going back to my hotel. I need a shower." But that hadn't worked last time, had it? It had gotten maddeningly close, but no -

"No, you're not. You're coming with me. I don't trust any of these idiots to get you back in time for debriefing. There's only two seats on this flight, now get your bag and come with me."

"Z, darling," Dorian said with a very sweet smile, thinking highly inappropriate thoughts, "Perhaps _you'd_ like to go. You've been so very good, surely you deserve it more than I -"

But by that time, Klaus had his arm in that iron grip of his, and they were walking far too quickly over the tarmac. And he wasn't even helping with his bag.

Well, and if he couldn't be counted on to help with baggage, what good was he going to be on an eight hour flight? None, it turned out. Shocking. Two miserable, cramped little inter-island prop-jobs later, Dorian was actually looking forward to a civilized airline with a civilized beverage service, and civilized passage to civilization - well, Heathrow, but _close_ to civilization - and Klaus ruined even that by shoving him into a middle seat and going immediately to sleep, his long legs sprawled out into the aisle. Movement impossible; drinks unforthcoming from the irritated stewardesses.

He felt like absolute hell when they finally landed. The captain informed them that it was eleven o'clock at night local time, raining and slightly above freezing. Back to the land of winter. Klaus woke up just in time to make sure he couldn't sneak off the plane and throw himself on the mercy of the border guards - they would _have_ to take him in, he lived here. They couldn't make him go to Bonn.

But no - instead they shuffled off together, through the long, low, claustrophobic halls that slanted up and down and led them through a sadistic maze before finally spitting them out within reasonable proximity of their connecting flight to - ugh - Germany.

Which was canceled. Klaus threw his jacket down on the floor. "Fuck!"

"Never flown through London, darling? I think you'll like it - it builds character."

Klaus ignored him, the son of a bitch, and went to jab his finger in the face of a gate agent or two. He came back with a scowl.

"We're booked on a flight tomorrow morning at eight. There's nothing til then. Go find a bench and get some sleep." And he headed for the smokers' room.

Well, really. A bench? Dorian collected his bag and headed for immigration, breezing past him.

"Where the hell do you think you're going? I said _sit down_."

Dorian stopped and turned on him. Klaus nearly ran over him; he had his jacket hung over his shoulder, and a pack of cigarettes already in his hand.

"I have a very comfortable flat not fifteen miles from here. I'm not sleeping on a bloody bench."

"Huh-uh. You won't make it back in time in the morning, not even _close._ You're staying here. You don't like the bench, take the floor. I don't give a damn."

"No."

Klaus glared at him. - And then his eyes drifted for the briefest of moments to Dorian's chest before they remembered themselves, and he shoved the cigarettes back in his briefcase. "Fine. Come on." He shoved past him and stormed off toward arrivals, Dorian following almost cheerfully in his wake. Home! It seemed too good to be true. And he had a spare bedroom, even, if Klaus insisted on it, but - maybe he wouldn't. They both needed a shower and some intense relaxation, and he knew all kinds of wonderful ways to achieve _that_. Klaus's shoulders always looked so tense - maybe he could get his hands on them and really dig in. Wouldn't that be lovely?

Once they had convinced the proper authorities to wave them through, they found a car rental - Klaus wouldn't consent to a cab, but that was no terrible surprise - and settled into their comfortable if distressingly boxy vehicle. Klaus wanted to drive, of course. And that was fine. "Just head towards the city," Dorian said, putting his seat back and reveling in the thought of bed, and just possibly company. "And wake me up when you need directions."

"Yes, Lord Gloria."

Of course he ought to have been suspicious. 

And yet he was not - perhaps he was simply too tired - until they slowed to a crawl far, far too early to be anywhere even close to the right turn-off. He sat up. Klaus had a brochure pinned open on the steering wheel, and was guiding them carefully into a parking lot. It was a hotel.

"I told you I was going home." Why couldn't he understand? An airport hotel was scarcely better than getting stepped over by night janitors in the terminal itself.

"You won't come back, if you go home. We're staying here tonight."

"Klaus, any hotel with the word 'Heathrow' in the name is going to be just as vile as -"

Klaus put the car in park. "Don't call me Klaus. Now get out."

Oh, _that_ sounded promising. 'Don't call me Klaus.' No hope at all of sharing his bed with anything but - anything but whatever creatures came out of the walls when you turned off your lights in this threadbare red-eye warehouse. "You get out if you want," he said, not moving. "Sleep wherever the hell you like. I'm going home."

"No, you're not."

"I am."

"Nein."

"Oh, yes I am -"

"Get out of the fucking car! _Now!_ "

Dorian muttered an obscenity, shoved his door open, and stepped out into the bone-chilling cold. God damn him. You could count on Klaus to ruin everything, you really could. It was like nothing had ever happened between them. If that's what he wanted - he was a crude, stupid fool who deserved as much difficulty as one man could heap on another. He _might_ have been having a hot shower and a back rub; but now, he was getting Eroica. And he had no one to blame but himself. When Klaus stepped to the back of the car to open the trunk, Dorian hurried around the front and slipped into the driver's seat. He slammed the door shut and locked it just in time for Klaus to pound on the window with an impressively escalated fury. Dorian had thought he was already angry, but had apparently been mistaken. That had only been 'mildly annoyed.'

Klaus plunged the key into the lock and tried to open the door again; Dorian re-locked it from the inside. They went back and forth that way for a couple of minutes. It lifted his spirits immensely. Even in the unflattering parking lot lighting, he could see the Major's face take on that beloved shade of red.

Finally, Klaus stopped trying. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared off towards the road, waiting like a tower of barely repressed rage beside the car. Dorian smiled at him.

He _could_ just hot wire the thing, of course. But that wouldn't be sporting, would it? He had already won, no need to push it. He rolled the window down. "I'm ready to stop making a scene now."

Klaus didn't look at him. "I am not going to play your stupid games. Just get out."

"Oh, no, you only want to play _your_ games - like the one where you see how quickly you can make me miserable for no reason. Or the one where you drive me around wherever you please without bothering to consult me, like some kind of baggage."

"Get out."

"You can't treat me that way, you know, when I haven't done anything to you. Why is it funny to stuff me in the back of a van or pin me between two sleeping louts for the better part of a day? Where do you get off pushing me around and calling me an idiot, then getting on that high horse of yours and acting as tough you're perfectly behaved?"

Klaus took in a deep, very precisely-regulated breath. His voice scraped the bottom of the register, it was so heavy with scorn. "I do apologize, _my lord_ , if I've hurt your _feelings_ -"

"Thanks, love." Dorian hopped out of the car. Something in Klaus's face twitched. What did an aneurysm sound like, he wondered? "Will you get my suitcase?"

"Get your own goddamned suitcase!" Klaus exploded, and Dorian smiled indulgently. He found he had quite forgiven him - yes, even for marching him out of his bedroom right when he thought he had finally found heaven. He fetched his bag without further complication, and followed the seething Major into the miserable little hotel's lobby.

He let Klaus do the talking, although he held no personal grudge against the concierge. The silk flowers planted crooked in a plain blue vase held his attention during the booking process, and he wondered - idly, because the thing was done, one way or another - whether he had made a strategic mistake. He didn't think so. Klaus had paid him no attention at all ever since they had left the grounds of that resort, had been just as rude and callous and dismissive as ever throughout their professional interactions. He had leapt at the very first chance to get him back to headquarters and shove him off onto someone's hands. Probably he had decided that he had made a mistake, one not to be repeated, and the sooner he got home the sooner he could bury it in his own way.

That wouldn't be happening, of course. Dorian had never once contemplated leaving Klaus alone, not even _before_ he knew what it felt like to have the man focus his very well-disciplined attentions on ...

He couldn't think of it, not if he wanted to wake up tomorrow with any morale to speak of, with enough perk to continue this never-ending chase. He kept his chin up when Klaus shoved a key-card at him, and followed quietly to the stairs.

"You're on the third floor - in 308."

"I heard him."

"Your wake-up call is at four-thirty."

Hideous. "Yes, you were very clear on that point."

"If you're not downstairs at ten to five _exactly_ , I will -"

"Oh, go have yourself a fucking drink, will you?" Really, the way he went on. What a wretched, small place that mind of his must be. Dorian charged briskly up the stairs; Klaus peeled off on the second floor, and as he ascended the last few steps alone, he couldn't help but feel disappointed. It wouldn't do to let oneself be deterred, of course not - but to come so _close_ ...

He shouldered his way into his room, dropped the bag to the side of the door, and rushed to where the radiator sat sullen and inactive. What kind of hotel left the guests to fend off the weather themselves?

He gave the knob a turn; nothing. Fuck.

He fiddled with it a few more minutes, then stood and gave it a sharp kick. He could go downstairs and complain, there would be rooms to spare in this pathetic hovel - but it was past midnight already. If he wanted to sleep at all, now was the time.

So he dug out his bathrobe, and locked himself in the shower. It wasn't too hard to avoid thinking, once the water finally heated up. The road ahead became blissfully clear: he would go to bed, ignore the wake-up call, and sleep through Klaus trying to beat down his door. And if he wouldn't leave without him, Dorian would just climb out the window and catch a cab. 

What could go wrong?

He dried off, bound his hair up in one of the hotel's towels, and slid into his bathrobe, already shivering in the faint draught coming in under the bathroom door. He steeled himself, and stepped out into the freezing bedroom to get his hairdryer out of his bag.

But he never got that far. The moment his foot hit the rough, dreary carpeting, Klaus grabbed his robe by the lapels, swung him around, and thrust him back against the wall with a strength that nearly knocked the wind out of him. The scent of scotch, cigarettes, and - shaving cream? - overpowered him in an instant. He felt the towel being wrenched from his hair as Klaus was kissing him; the pressure of his lips was almost brutal, and - _fuck_ , his hands were _freezing_. 

Dorian turned his face away, but his hands, more concerned with the here and now, scratched at the shirt on Klaus's back in an ill-fated but valiant attempt to get it over his head without bothering with buttons. "Oh, my god," he moaned, as Klaus's mouth found a more cooperative part of him to engage with, and the water from his hair dripped down his front and soaked into his robe, making him shudder. "No, you _must_ be joking, we're not doing this here -"

"Stop your whining. It's your own god damn fault." Klaus pulled the robe sharply off his shoulders. "I was there in the Caribbean, but you had to dawdle."

"Can we at least go to your room?" 

"Hell no."

"But it's - it's arctic in here!" Klaus's icy hands planted themselves firmly on his abdomen, and Dorian yelped.

"You feel warm to me." 

"Because -" He broke off as Klaus's mouth took over his again, and he found himself pinned between the wall and a very strong, heavy, hard body with no hope of escape, and ... why had he wanted to escape, again ...?

He found his breath after a minute or two, and managed to sputter out unconvincingly: "That's because I've been in the shower, you idiot."

"Ja? You smell clean." Klaus's hands had wandered behind his hips and up to the small of his back.

Dorian gripped his shoulders and pushed him backwards. "Ja. And if you make me stand around naked in here with my hair soaking wet and no heat, I am sure to catch something and die."

Klaus looked at him; Dorian looked back. It wasn't too much to ask, was it? The Major wasn't stubborn enough to walk away on this account - he almost definitely wasn't - maybe he was -

"Alright," Klaus said, just as Dorian was about to suggest that maybe it wasn't so bad after all. He stepped back from him, and the cold of the room hit Dorian again like a bucket of water. "Go get back in, then."

He didn't have to say it twice. Dorian shrugged his robe off with a little smile, slipped away from him, and backed into the bathroom again. "Mein Herr." Klaus followed, shedding clothes at an impressive pace. Soon they were both packed into the little stall shower, the scalding water was banishing all the tension from him, and Klaus was looking supremely - fantastically, enchantingly - lost. 

"I haven't -"

"Oh, I know."

He got it in the end, though - his Major, such a quick study when it was absolutely, desperately urgent that he learn something _right now_. Dorian knew they were well-deserved, these hard-won fruits of his tireless chase, his unceasing labor: Klaus at his back, their arms tangled up together, the hot, slick tile at his chest. It didn't matter that it was a drab little hotel room. Anywhere with Klaus would have been a castle. (Alright, almost anywhere.)

When it was over, Dorian felt Klaus hesitating - an uncertain move of the hand, a stiffness in his stance - and he turned to face him, pulling his arms around him and soaking him up into himself. Another kiss; warm, murmured words, compliments, name-calling; a lot of steam. He felt like he was floating.

He was _still_ floating when he plugged in his hairdryer, as Klaus dressed out by the bed. It would have been lovely to have him stay the night, but the Major had to be present to accept his wake-up call. Someday he would break him of all that wearisome practicality.

Klaus leaned in the bathroom door with a stern expression. "Four fifty."

Dorian grinned at him. "Precisely."

"I mean it. Be downstairs, packed, and ready to go."

"You look like you mean it. And if I don't?"

"I'll think of - stop that!" Dorian had turned the hairdryer on him.

"Sorry, darling. Slipped."

"Huh." Klaus stepped up behind him, ran his hand into Dorian's impossible, wet hair, and leaned in close, his lips, his teeth brushing against his ear. "I'll think of something."

He left Dorian grinning into the mirror, unsure whether he wanted to obey him for _the rest of his life_ , or thwart him _at every turn_ , but with a good sense of which way he was leaning.


End file.
